Revealing the roots of behaviors and addictions

The Merry Prankster Makes Me Drink

My inner voices are always at war — Dryuary Day 4

“Man, when you lose your laugh, you lose your footing.”

– Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Anthony lay in front of me, his torso elevated as in a hospital bed. I can see nothing but his face, neck and shoulders. He is so still that I imagine he may look this way if he were dead. And then I realize…he is dead. His eyes are swollen and ringed in purple. His skin waxes grey right before my eyes. I feel butterflies of horror.

I am suddenly in a convenient store in New York City. There are buses and cars and trains around me and over me. I can’t buy cigarettes here; they’ll cost ten dollars a pack. I can’t buy any beer because I’m not drinking.

I am alone. I have no one to call. It’s a city of ten million people. Other people, people who have their shit together, survive here everyday. I cannot.

I wake up. The corridor is cold but I stay in my bare feet and T-shirt.

69.2 kg. Have I really lost a pound?

Shoes, pants, laces, zip, earphones, a sip of water. Our large, metal front door clangs open and I am in the street. I approach the main road stretching as I walk. It’s already 9:30 so I’m dodging traffic, threading in and out of cars parked on the sidewalk. I take my baby route once again (1 km). When finished, I am not tired, so I do it a second time.

Small victories.

If there is one salient point to be made about removing yourself from an addictive pleasure, it is simply that you feel like you are someone else.

Shower, dress, in the car. Anthony and I leave to take our daughter Ella to meet her friend for a movie. Then, we go to meet friends for lunch. This is a rowdy, fun crowd. They know me well. As we arrive, there are already crisp beers and a small pitcher of arak on the table along with scattered plates of hommus, tabbouleh, baba ghanouj and pita bread.

There are hugs and kisses and “Happy New Year” and such. The view out the window is like flying in a chopper over Mount Lebanon, breathtaking.

“Yala Josie, beer?”

I could just say, “No, not today.” But that would be ridiculous. These people know I drink with the seasons, and there is never a low one. So I just blurt it out:

“I’m not drinking through the month of January.”

In the silence, I heard them draw in soft breath as if to speak.

“Why?”

“It’s a way for me to evaluate my relationship with alcohol.”

I can hear their thoughts: “relationship with alcohol? what does this mean?”

“Oh, to determine if you’re an alcoholic?”

At least they are comfortable with getting right to the point, so I let it all hang out.

“By any textbook definition, I am an alcoholic. I guess it just depends on what I choose to do, or not do.”

“You are here, you’re not drinking, you’re controlling it, you’re not an alcoholic,” says Kayal, raising a glass. He looks across to Rony and they burst into a sharp flak of laughter.

Now everyone is laughing, even me, but while the men are spiritedly banging on the table, I can sense a mood in the air. It’s a bit of sarcasm and confusion, but mostly I am picking up something akin to quiet wonder and pride. They are happy for my choice, and through the month, I will have their support.

The waiter comes. I order a diet 7up and dig into lunch. Eating Lebanese food is both sensual and ritual. There is a method in folding flatbread and meals are eaten in a particular order. Lebanese don’t load up with many different dishes at once. They give attention to one plate at a time, savoring the pomegranate in the baba ghannouj, the garlic and mint of the labneh folded into bread with prosciutto, the chilled licorice of arak as it washes the flavors down.

As I took to the motions of enjoying the food, I couldn’t pinpoint how I was feeling. I was not upset, I was…

I was nervous. I dropped things, clattered a fork onto my plate, and knocked over Anthony’s glass of beer.

“Have some arak, you weren’t this clumsy before,” said Kayal.

Everyone laughed, but I felt like the Devil on a leash. I wasn’t hankering for a drink or pining for a cold beer. I didn’t actually want it at all. If there is one salient point to be made about removing yourself from an addictive pleasure, it is simply that you feel like you are someone else, that the spirit under your very flesh can no longer occupy this body.

I have two warring inner voices: Wisdom and The Merry Prankster. It’s easy for you to see what their respective roles are. In silencing the Prankster today, I found myself alone to fend for myself. The Merry Prankster may drive me to drink, but he is also the gunner in my ranks who hauls around my wit, humour, cojones and charm — my thick skin.

Feeling abandoned, he stood there in my conscience with his arms crossed and a smug twist to his face. When I knocked over a full pitcher of dressing for the fatoush salad, he yawned.

At times, I tuned out the chatter and laughter all around me. I got lost over the valley outside the large plate windows. I imagined flying over to Church Mountain, the chimney-shaped peak that looms right over Hammana. I could see it all from my rickety chair. I regarded the crisp, white tablecloth and my highball glass bubbling with 7up. The waiter brought a platter of seasoned chicken. I toyed with the paper restaurant napkin next to my plate which proudly read “Ain el Khasfeh”.

Then, the bill came. We paid, bid each other adieu, and left.

I exhaled for ten minutes in the car.

I made it. And everything was pretty ok. Today, I have had four cigarettes. I may have two more but that would be it. Then it’s bed, sleep, dreams…

and Day 5.

Josie Elbiry, 2021

The Roots of Behaviors and Addictions is a series of short memoirs written during a month of abstention from alcohol in 2019. In today’s entry for Day 4, I learned at the restaurant that I have a voice I can use to manifest action toward a difficult goal. I also found I could overcome fears of embarrassment and declare a desire to make changes in destructive behavior patterns. Especially, I learned that those who love me will stay by my side through journeys both emotional and spiritual. Throughout my first Dryuary experience, I told someone practically each day that I was not drinking. It became a natural part of my daily routine to answer their questions with honesty.

Yala is a common word in Lebanese Arabic. It is used to mean let’s go and hurry up. In the context of Yala, Josie, beer? it is used to prompt action. For example, in English, we often use the word Okay to prompt action, as in Okay! Who’s next?

You can catch the first three installments here: